


A Quick Drop and a Sudden Stop

by shetlandowl



Series: My Known Unknown [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, References to non-con/sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-24 22:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12022224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetlandowl/pseuds/shetlandowl
Summary: Two years after Steve revealed his identity as Captain America and Tony's recruitment by SHIELD, Tony has finally qualified for the field (and, more importantly, he's free of the van). Steve may be reluctant to let his husband out of the van, but as it happens, events rarely seem to shake out in Steve's favor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows an earlier fic, but works as a stand-alone. For the "abandonment issues" square on my Stony bingo card.

He was sweaty, sore, gross, and he was pretty sure there was a full imprint of Clint’s boot print somewhere in the neighborhood of his kidneys (which would go a long way in explaining why he was pissing red), but Tony could not be happier.

“Hey, babe!” he hollered the next time he saw Steve. Unfortunately, the next time he had seen Steve was when he had spotted him through the floor to ceiling glass walls of a conference room, where he was clearly in the middle of a meeting with Rumlow and Rushman—or, whatever, Romanov. But if they really cared about keeping closed meetings private, they wouldn’t make the locks so easy to break, right? Right. 

“Tony, are you alright?” Steve asked immediately, because that’s how long it had taken to recognize how Tony favored his left side. He sat up in his seat, visibly unhappy by the bruises he could see on Tony’s arms and around his neck in that sleeveless shirt. But Tony only grinned as he slowly made his way around the table, clearly as oblivious to Steve’s concern as he was the protocols of a classified meeting.

“Bucky did a number on me. But, I’ve got good news,” he announced with a grin. “I got those tickets you wanted.”

Steve frowned thoughtfully, unsure of what tickets Tony was referring to. “African American History Museum?”

“Not yet,” Tony admitted. “Guess again.”

“The Book of Mormon?”

“You’re the worst at this.”

“Stark,” Rumlow groaned, “come on, we gotta get this ironed out before our meeting with Fury.”

“Yeah, sure—babe, what tickets?”

Tony smirked, and with a sudden, excited flare, he proudly flexed his biceps. “Two front row tickets to the gun show!”

“Excuse us,” Steve told Rumlow and Romanov without so much as looking at them, unable to take his eyes off his husband. Annoyed, but grateful for the easy out, Rumlow and Romanov gathered themselves up and swept out of the room in a flash.

Steve and Tony met halfway. Steve cradled Tony’s face in his hands, eagerly, needfully drawing him in for a passionate kiss; without breaking a sweat or the kiss, Tony climbed Steve like a tree. He had his knees around Steve’s ribs by the time Steve couldn’t contain himself anymore and started laughing into the kiss. One hand slipped from Tony’s face and came around to palm his ass instead, anchoring his weight against Steve’s body.

Tony grinned around the full bottom lip he had caught between his teeth, and without giving up his prize, he growled, “Down, boy.”

There was only a yard or so between them and the conference desk, and Steve obediently backed up against it and lowered himself onto it until he was flat on his back with Tony safely, happily, over him.

Tony purred and pushed himself up so he could loom over his husband, bracing his weight with his forearms on either side of Steve’s face until he occupied every space that Steve could see.

“I love it when you’re this…. amenable,” he purred softly against Steve’s cheek before closing his wetted, warm lips around Steve’s earlobe.

As predictable as a live wire, Steve’s hips bucked up against Tony’s the moment Tony closed his mouth around his earlobe. With a rumbling groan and all ten fingers digging into Tony’s ass, he breathlessly managed to whisper, “I am a free man, but I shall serve you in those ways you require.”

Whether by conscious choice or not, Tony’s arms gave out. From their lips to their hips, gravity pressed them together, grinding, writhing, until Steve’s clever, industrious fingers slipped under Tony’s sparring gear.

But where Steve had expected to find a second pair of compression tights, or at least briefs, there was little else besides a waistband under Tony’s SHIELD issue gear. Tony moaned in encouragement, shifting his knees wider apart for the glorious seconds Steve groped around and tried to make sense of it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take Steve long to find the elastic straps framing Tony’s bare ass.

“This is a gift,” Steve growled, accusatory and grateful, all the while inviting himself to palm-fulls of Tony’s ass in the jockstrap, perhaps a touch too eager in how he pulled and spread his cheeks apart.

Clutched between Steve’s straining erection and his greedy manhandling, Tony’s hips stuttered indecisively, spoiled for choice. “A celebration,” Tony eventually corrected him, grinning and breathless. “I passed. Phil says I’m ready for the field.”

Under him, Steve grew absolutely still.

“No.”

Tony blinked down at him, shocked into silence for a few beats before reality caught up with him and he realized that hadn’t been a joke.

“What do you mean, no?” Tony cautiously asked, sitting up so that his weight rested on Steve’s abdomen. Steve’s hands slipped out from the mischief in Tony’s sparring tights, and rested on Tony’s hips instead. “I’ve been training for months, Steve, over a year. With Clint, with Bucky; I’m pretty sure if I’ve got the stamp of approval from Bucky Barnes himself, I’m ready to get out of the damn van.”

“Bucky is not your field team lead, I am,” Steve said with a carefully controlled calm, “and I cannot have you in the field.”

“What—you—” Tony tried to get his words out, but too many emotions were welling up in his body and in his mind for any of them to make coherent sense. “You’ve seen me practicing! You’ve—you’ve helped train me, you—you’ve known this whole time how much it means to me, what—why did you—”

At least Steve had the decency to look contrite. “You needed the training, Tony,” he said, less brusque than he had been moments earlier. “You needed to know better self-defense even if you’re in the van. I know—I know you can handle yourself. You’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen. But I won’t be able to concentrate if I know you’re in the field, too.”

“That sounds like a you-problem, Steve, and nothing else. Are you shitting me right now?” Tony growled, slamming open palms down on Steve’s chest in a restrained expression of his rising anger. But that wasn’t enough; if he stayed there, his anger would only get worse. He climbed off his husband and the conference table with determination but little grace, rushing to put distance between them before he said or did something he regretted.

Steve rolled up and onto his feet, looking thoroughly and deliciously debauched in his damn civvies, but not enough to be forgiven off hand. It only got worse when he opened his mouth.

“Babe, if it was any other team—”

“No,” Tony interrupted him, unwilling to listen. “No, Steve—what else do you want from me? In less than two years I’ve built and headed a company to front for all the gadgets and gear that SHIELD uses - not to mention all our team’s damn operations. I did that on top of the field training, and now you’re telling me that I can’t do what I want because you can’t concentrate if I’m out there, too?”

“Tony, listen to me, please,” Steve said once Tony was finished, and while he hadn’t used their safeword, please gave Tony’s anger pause. “We get handed some of the worst cases because of me. The threats and the criminals that are too dangerous for other teams to handle. I’m sorry, Tony. I am not willing to put you out there with the worst scum of this century. You can’t ask me to risk losing you, too.”

“Sure they’re scum, but they’re not super-human,” Tony replied when Steve had said his piece. “No, you know what? I can’t do this with you right now,” he then seemed to realize, mostly out loud to himself, before turning away and marching out of the office they had commandeered.

Instead of heading left towards the locker room and showers, Steve watched as Tony turned right in the general direction for the parking garage, and marched past a long line of their colleagues who were busy trying to look busy on their phones right outside the conference room’s glass walls.

***

Steve didn’t last another hour at work. Tony had taken the car, which was thankfully parked in front of their house when Steve was dropped off.

Unless someone had come and picked him up. Or Tony had called a cab so he could drink and forget Steve’s blunder.

Steve didn’t know what would be worse. If Rhodey had picked him up for a night out, he’d have to sleep with one eye open; sure he could survive the odd bullet and knife, but that didn’t mean those didn’t hurt.

Though, nursing a bullet wound might make Tony more sympathetic to his apology. Hell, maybe the best thing to do was to confess to Tony’s best friend and ask for advice. Possibly in a shooting range. They have rules, right? They would have to inform his husband of an ‘accident.’ There’d be paperwork, but—

“Steve, get out of the way.”

Steve blinked and turned around. Tony was standing a few feet behind him with the empty recycling bin in tow.

“It’s pick-up day,” Steve concluded numbly.

“…yeah,” Tony answered in a tone that didn’t need to say _duh_. “They emptied it, so now I’m taking the bin back to where it lives. Or did you grow roots? Should I call Bucky? Clint? Phil? Tasha? Sitwell? Stop me when you hear a name you trust to get the job done.”

“Tony, I,” said Steve, but he got no further. He looked down at his hands for a moment, and when he looked up, Tony was still waiting for him to go on. “Can we talk? I’ll… I’ll be better, about listening, I mean.”

Tony didn’t reply, but he didn’t delay in dumping the recycling bin on the pavement. Eventually Steve took the hint and walked around to pick it up. Tony passed him by towards the house now that Steve wasn’t blocking the path anymore, leaving Steve to follow along behind with the empty recycling bin.

Once he had put the bin away behind the house and come in, he easily found Tony puttering in the kitchen making coffee. Steve sat down at the kitchen table without argument, and was soon given a cup of coffee with a splash of cream, just how he liked it.

“You were right. This is a me-problem,” he started once Tony sat down beside him. “You know how I lost Bucky. I wasn’t fast enough. You know… you know how I lost Peggy. Both times.”

Tony frowned and put his own coffee away, then reached for Steve’s chair with both hands to pull him over. Except, as per usual, Steve was the heavier of the two, so all Tony managed to do was drag his own chair closer to his husband.

“Babe, you can’t blame yourself,” Tony reminded him gently, for what it was worth. “Had you been a lesser man, Buck would’ve still been at Hydra’s mercy. Just because you’re a hero doesn’t mean you’re a god. You’re a man. A good man who tries his best. And sure, I get that you and Bucky have the serum, but what about every other SHIELD agent? That’s what I am, Steve. I got no right to risk any less than them.”

Steve looked up at him at those familiar words. “You… did you talk to Bucky?”

Tony blinked at him, a little blindsided by the question. “Bucky? When?”

“Nevermind,” Steve admitted with a huff. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. If Coulson thinks you’re ready, and Bucky thinks you’re ready, I—you’re in. But,” he added quickly, before Tony’s shock gave way to euphoria. “Please, just, will you be patient? Trust my judgement?”

“Sure, yeah, cool, yeah, cool cool cool,” Tony blabbered in a botched mockery of composure. “Of course. And, you know, if ever I do question your judgement, I’ll always have your best friend on speed-dial to coach me through it.”

Steve was so relieved by the first part of Tony’s answer that it took him a beat for the second half to sink in.

“I knew it,” he rumbled. Tony laughed in his face and grabbed a fistful of Steve’s shirt to reel him in for a happy, celebratory kiss. “Cheater.”

“Guilty as charged.”


	2. Four Months Later

“Honey, I’m home!” Steve called into the house, and he kicked off his boots before puttering around a little downstairs to put his things away. “You need anything?”

Steve wasn’t alarmed when no answer came. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Tony not to respond to his questions; more likely than not, he had fallen asleep again, which would be for the better, all things considered. Steve put a little tray of food together regardless, heating up some chicken noodle soup and preparing a cup of chamomile tea to take with him to the bedroom.

He was half-way up the stairs when he heard Tony’s voice answering him.

“Babe?” he asked, as if it could be anyone else. “You’re home early?”

Steve smiled to himself and waited until he stepped into the bedroom to answer Tony. As he had suspected, his sniffling, grouchy Tony was buried up to his chin under the blankets in bed, just as Steve had last left him. Kleenex boxes and a great variety of lozenges were strewn around Tony on the bed, and a food tray that Steve had brought up to him on his lunch hour earlier in the day sat on his bedside table, empty.

“There’s nothing left to do that I can’t do from home,” Steve started to explain, but his smile was faltering even as he spoke. “I wanted to be here—babe, did you open the window?”

“No,” Tony promised, and he even glanced in the direction of all the windows in turn as if to check. Steve bit his lips to keep from smiling at how different (adorable) his poor husband sounded with his nose all clogged up. “You said don’t, so I didn’t.”

Steve frowned to himself, and he sniffed the air a little suspiciously. “Then what’s that smell?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Tony deadpanned, “ask the stuffed up guy if he smells anything?”

“I—no, no, babe—” Steve couldn’t help but laugh in his embarrassment, and he put the new tray of soup and tea down on the bed so he could lean over and kiss Tony in apology. “I’m sorry, no, I just—forget it. It smells like someone else has been here, that’s all.”

Tony blinked up at him in shock. “You—you can smell that?”

“Sometimes,” Steve admitted with a shrug, and he stepped away from the bed briefly to make his way over to his closet, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Did someone come by today?”

“Clint was here to pick up something from the office,” Tony mumbled, savoring the sight of Steve peeling his work clothes off his body (as he often did). “He didn’t bring me any cheeseburgers or onion rings while he was here, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Steve grinned to himself, glancing back over his shoulder to give Tony a look. “The serum didn’t make me a bloodhound, Tony.”

Steve wasn’t even looking when he opened the closet door, too amused and caught up watching Tony’s expressive reaction to another one of the many but less obvious effects of the serum. But when Tony was overcome with wide-eyed shock, staring at something over Steve’s shoulder, Steve turned on instinct to see what had spooked his husband.

Bucky. Hiding in Steve’s closet, naked.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up into a cautious grin. “Hi, Stevie.”

Steve shut the closet door on him and turned back to face his Tony. But his husband, who, despite evidence to the contrary, apparently had some sense of self-preservation, had slunk a little further under the covers, as if the duvet would somehow shield him from Steve’s anger.

“Tony. What’s Bucky doing in my closet?” Steve managed to get out. “In my underwear.”

“I can explain,” Tony promised from under the covers, and Steve almost rolled his eyes. Almost. “He was in danger.”

“Damn right he’s in danger—” Steve started to shout, when a knock from inside his closet interrupted him. “Shut up! You wait your turn.”

“It isn’t Tony’s fault,” Bucky called through the door anyway. “The Virginia safe house was compromised, I—”

Steve almost tore the closet door off its hinges when he threw it open again. “So you came here? This is my home, Buck!”

“What could be safer!”

“This isn’t a safe house! It’s a safe house, but that—there’s nothing here!”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. You spend how many hundreds of thousands decking out Tony’s car, but you want me to believe this is just a normal house?”

“If you led Hydra to my fucking house—”

“What about my car?”

“I got rid of my tail,” Bucky promised, ignoring Tony’s question smoothly. “The house is safe. I just—I had to know how they knew about Virginia, Steve. If we have a Hydra mole in SHIELD—”

“Tony is sick with the flu and you brought him your damn dirty wo—wait,” Steve said with a sudden stop, glancing down to get a better look at the boxers Bucky was wearing. “Those are my Etiquette Black Label. Those—Tony!”

“I told him you’d be upset,” Tony said in his own defense. “But, I mean, it’s kinda cute, right? You and your best friend have the same taste.”

“I can’t look at you right now,” Steve glowered at Bucky and shut the door in his face again, and he was about to march out of the bedroom when Tony reached for him.

“Skin contact helps me recover faster,” he reminded Steve, as innocently as possible. “Didn’t you say your mom believed that?”

Steve paused in the doorway, but it didn’t take him long to reconsider. Nothing was more important than Tony shaking this stupid cold. He turned around and came back to bed, shedding all of his clothes with practiced efficiency and no added flair.

When Steve lifted the covers, there were enough reports and folders stacked into tidy piles that even Coulson would have been proud. But he only sighed to himself and started to pick them up, replicating Tony’s organization on the floor.

“You’re not off the hook,” Steve murmured when he finally slid under the covers and pulled Tony in tight against himself. “I can’t believe you let him wear my Black Label.”

“You have a dozen of those,” Tony reminded him gently, “and you’ll be interested in the intel Bucky brought back; I think this is bigger than one or two moles—”

“It can wait,” Steve decided, and lifted his head to press a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “Sleep.”

“Can I come out now?” Bucky called from the closet. “This is very unlike you, Stevie. Forcing people to stay in the closet. Just saying.”

“You have to admit, it is a little ironic,” Tony whispered, his breath warm against Steve’s throat. It was almost enough for Steve to forgive them both. Almost.

“Egon was right,” he said with a content, sleepy sigh instead. “I should never have crossed the streams.”

***

“Babe, where are you? Come closer,” Tony complained with a pout, reaching for Steve on the far side of the bed. “Get over here; you have husbandly duties to perform.”

“I love you, Tony, dearest peach of mine, but you’ve kicked me out of bed five times in the past two nights. Literally,” Steve added, in case Tony didn’t remember. “ _‘You’re too hot, get away from me’_ were your exact words.”

“And I apologized for that,” insisted Tony, tugging at the nearest edge of Steve’s pillow. “Please?”

“I’m not falling for that again,” Steve told him—or himself, it wasn’t entirely clear to either of them at the moment.

Tony didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. He was stretched out, still pouting and still staring across the bed at Steve, and god, the silence was bearing down on Steve in ways that Tony’s words never could.

That little shit.

Steve lasted no more than a minute before he started scooting towards the middle, where Tony was waiting, now with a smile on his face.

“I love you,” Tony cooed in quiet praise, cuddling into the protective cradle of Steve’s arms.

“Just, don’t kick me in the liver again if you could,” Steve muttered in droll resignation.

Tony grinned before he could think twice about it. “Good, right? I’ve been working on that knee-snap kick combo.”

Steve gave him a flat, unimpressed look. Tony had the presence of mind to duck and hide his amusement. “I could tell,” Steve drawled over the sound of Tony’s muffled giggling.

“All the blowjobs, baby,” Tony quietly promised through his laughter, as if it was a secret declaration even in the privacy of their own bedroom.

“Go forty-eight hours without a fever first, please,” Steve whispered in reply, and pressed a chaste, adoring kiss to the bridge of Tony’s nose instead. He settled down a little more on his back, murmuring soft encouragement for Tony to follow him as he pulled Tony along with him, until Tony’s head was pillowed on his chest. Steve cupped the back of Tony’s head gently, and, unable to resist, pressed a kiss to the crown of Tony’s head before settling down to sleep. 

They were both fading out of consciousness to the uncoordinated rhythm of Steve’s fingers carding through Tony’s thick hair when Steve perked up.

“Did you hear that?”

Tony frowned against Steve’s chest, and could mostly be heard muttering, “You were scoring so many points a second ago, Steve…”

But Steve wasn’t going for the gentle banter; he gave Tony’s shoulder a solid pat and quietly asked, “Tony, where’s the gun?”

“Got my hand on it,” Tony whispered a moment later, and true to his word, he’d slipped his hand down between the mattress and the headboard to grip one of the SIGs they kept on hand. “Sure s’not Bucky back?”

“When I kicked him out yesterday, I told him I’d take his arm as collateral the next time he came through here in the middle of a mission.”

“Yeah, but then I’d only return it with upgrades, so what’s he got to lose—”

The window nearest the bed blew inwards in a hailstorm of shattered glass, but Tony laid out each of the two would-be assailants with bullets through the windpipe. Steve took advantage of the brief cover Tony provided to punch through the headboard of their bed, find a good grip, and lift it off the bed frame so he could swing it around as a shield in front of them.

“Babe, I love your style,” Tony grunted as he took out the next wave of masked assailants that stormed in through the windows and then the door, “but wood doesn’t beat bullet.”

All too quickly, Tony’s gun clicked uselessly in his hand. They were out of ammo.

“Behind me!” Steve roared as their attackers predictably unleashed their automatic weapons on the headboard Steve had wedged between them for protection, and Tony obeyed at once; Steve pressed forward against the machine guns so that Tony could have the space to plaster himself to Steve’s back. Tony reached down along the edge of the mattress and tore off the two additional clips they kept beside the gun for safety, and he patted Steve’s right flank to signal he was ready.

They moved as one. Steve twisted the headboard just enough to give Tony the space on their right to fire back, and one after another, the bullets found their mark. When the last of fifteen bodies dropped and littered their bedroom floor, Tony called it clear.

“Another secret, Steve? What the hell is that bed made of?” he asked in wonder as he glanced at the shredded headboard that was just barely held together by whatever grip Steve seemed to have on it.

Steve gave him a wry look in response, and rather than answering him, he gave what remained of their wingback headboard a violent shake. The shot-up clusters of splintered wood, long swathes of linen fabric, and pieces of firm, thick padding fell away, leaving a large and unscathed round shield in Steve’s firm grip.

For a long stretch of precious time they didn’t have to waste, Tony stared at the iconic shield like he had forgotten how to English. Steve opened his mouth, presumably to remind him that they had to get going, but Tony beat him to it.

“Son of a bitch,” he rasped breathlessly, then finally looked up at Steve. “You are in so much trouble.”


	3. Two Days Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sexy-time tags apply here.

“I can’t believe you packed my car—my bullet, explosives, fire, and submergence proof car—with an arsenal of weapons, surveillance equipment, and enough medical shit to nurse a giraffe back to health—and forget never telling me about ANY of it,” Tony shouted all in one breath, “but it didn’t occur to you to stash any cash in it!”

“Anything you say in that tone of voice sounds like a bad decision,” Steve muttered quietly, dragging a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, babe, I hate to say this, but MIT or not, I can’t make the car run on rubbing alcohol. You need to call someone,” he added in a lowered voice, and he held out his own phone to Steve. “Please.”

“They were in our house. Hydra was in our bedroom,” Steve growled, not for the first time. “SHIELD is compromised. We’re not trusting a soul.”

“What about Bucky? Coulson? We trust them.”

“We’ve been over this: their absence would be obv—”

“—Then let me call Rhodey, I trust him with my life. He can wire us cash—”

“Tony! We need to show our ID to receive any wired funds.”

“Babe, we are living out of the car. There’s only so much Burger King I can stomach. We’re going to have to take a risk somewhere before you have regurgitated Whoppers all over the only pair of boots you’ve got.”

Steve leaned back against the trunk of the car with a heavy sigh. He hung his head for a beat and scrubbed a hand over his face, through his hair. “You’re right,” he finally conceded. “I’ll go make a call at the gas station. Just, please wait in the car?”

“I’ve spent two days in that car, Steve,” Tony reminded him, as if Steve hadn’t been there for every minute of it himself. “We have five more hours, tops, before we’re visited by the junk foods of shit decisions past.”

“Understood. Kiss?” Steve asked hopefully as he pushed away from the car, but Tony’s unimpressed frown was answer enough. With a little sigh, he walked away from Tony and the car. “I’ll tell them to step on it.”

***

Tony and Steve were on their fourth round of gin rummy when a white SUV pulled up beside them in the parking lot not two hours later. Steve got his hand on the pistol lying between them first, but before his paranoia had a chance to turn ugly, Tony was cheering and climbing out of the backseat.

“Sharon, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Tony welcomed her with a big grin, hurrying around the car in no time to pull her into a hug.

“Tony!” she laughed, giving him a pat on the back before stepping back. “It’s been two days, Tony, not two years.”

“Two days in the back of a car, with a man who suspects every moth and sparrow to be packing heat,” he deadpanned. “He’s a menace with a trigger finger. Have you tried to sleep with a jungle cat breathing down your neck all night? I haven’t slept right in sixty-five hours.”

From safely behind him, Steve dared to roll his eyes.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Sharon,” Steve said more calmly. “Where are we headed?”

“LA. But first: cash, IDs, phone,” she listed off as she handed Tony a small zipped leather pouch. “Reservation details for a suite at the Oceana for Edward Grant. The identity is still dormant, I got most of what tech had in lockup. Outside of Coulson, nobody should know of its existence.”

Steve blinked in his surprise for several beats before turning to Tony for an explanation. “You—what? Grant?”

“You took my name in this life,” Tony explained casually, even offering a minor shrug of one shoulder to elaborate on how casual he really was. “I thought I’d take your fake one in, uh… you know, our fake one? No big. Why—Christ, Steve—would you wipe that look off your face, Buttercup? We’ve got work to do.”

“Tell me you got us a quinjet,” Steve asked Sharon then, a little more urgently than a minute earlier, but when she shook her head no, he valiantly tried to hold out hope. “A G4? G5? An F-16?”

“Sorry,” she answered with a grimace. “Business class. And,” she added more firmly, to Steve’s growing frustration, “I’ll be sitting next to you the whole way, so, do us all a favor and keep it in your respective pants.”

***

Once well in the air, Sharon cleared her throat delicately and leaned across the aisle.

“Is he ever going to forgive me?”

Tony startled and looked up from the Economist in surprise. Beside him, Steve stirred in his sleep in response, and Tony spared a moment to rub a gentle hand over Steve’s thigh until he was assured that his husband continued resting. “What’s that?” he asked Sharon quietly then, turning away from Steve with some reluctance to give her his attention.

“Steve. He hasn’t looked at me since I told him we’re flying commercial.”

“You’re fine,” Tony replied with a faint smile. “He’s homesick, the house… it meant a lot to him.”

Sharon nodded once in an expression of understanding, but her look quirked a little at Tony’s word choice. “Just to him?”

“That was our house,” Tony said, his voice low and grave. “Ten years of memories in our house we can’t go back to. He’s… he’s lost enough. And now add to that our routines, our spaces. Our game nights in the backyard, camping in the living room, arguing over movie nights, elbowing each other flossing—weekly spying on the neighbors. That was great. They only have sex on Tuesdays at ten.”

“Bad sex,” Steve murmured muzzily; Tony instinctively smacked his arm in chastisement even though he snickered himself, and across the aisle, Sharon laughed.

“Bad sex,” Tony echoed in agreement, not even trying to hide his grin. “Two years of the worst, the loudest, the most transparent fake moaning you could think of.”

“Mmm… ‘m g’nna miss Gustav ‘n Lina,” Steve mumbled sleepily, now struggling against lazy limbs to sit up in his seat.

“Babe, you should rest— _oh_ ,” Tony exhaled in surprise when Steve dropped against him so suddenly that Tony’s whole body listed sideways; Steve nuzzled into Tony’s shoulder, and was soon softly snoring against Tony’s neck.

Tony couldn’t help but smile, nosing into Steve’s hair in return to breath him in deeply, steadying himself by the familiar musk and scent of his husband. He wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulders to draw him in closer still, greedily savoring every moment of his husband’s first restful break in the past two days.

“Clint was right,” Sharon said after a few beats, settling back into her seat. “You two are disgusting.”

“Talk to me when your partner is too worried about your health to eat or sleep,” he told her in a tight whisper. “When he’d do anything for you, at any expense. Talk to me then, and only then. Am I clear?”

Sharon amused smirk faded in a single breath, and contrite, she nodded in understanding at once.

“Crystal clear.”

***

“You amaze me,” Steve breathed reverently over Tony’s flushed skin, brushing wetted lips over the racing pulse of Tony’s exposed throat. “Your passion, your intelligence, your sympathy…”

“You—I—I, oh, _god!_ ”

Steve soothed him with quiet words and adoring kisses, until Tony’s breathing finally calmed and Steve could settle beside him on his side. With a gentle, studious touch, he traced the curve of Tony’s bottom lip; then, a delicate pressure, an invitation, and Tony parted his lips, swallowing Steve’s finger to the second knuckle.

They laid in a tangle of limbs across the expansive bed, slowly unfolding and stretching sore muscles as they recovered from the peaks of ecstasy. Lazily, Tony mouthed and lapped at Steve’s finger until he was rewarded with a second. Steve watched him suck down his fingers spellbound, as if after all these years he couldn’t believe the visceral, prolonged pleasure Tony exuded just from the memory of Steve’s cock on his tongue, the weight of it filling his mouth.

“You want more?” he wondered, his words so quiet they were no louder than a sigh, but Tony groaned in eager affirmation, his tired and sore body arching in instinctive demand for _more_. Steve bowed his head and pressed a lingering, adoring kiss to the soft flesh of Tony’s inner arm, murmuring words of love and gratitude against his skin.

He crooked his fingers then and gently turned Tony’s face until he could claim those lips and mouth for himself, swallowing moans and breathless whimpers as Tony struggled with the competing urges to satisfy his desire and his needful hunger for the thick fingers leisurely pumping against the flat of his tongue, and giving in to Steve’s mouth, to insist on his continued lavish attention. Even when the decision was made for him when Steve eased his fingers from his mouth, Tony whined and resisted the loss. Steve growled into the kiss in his praise, and hiked his knee up under Tony’s thigh so that it bumped against Steve’s hip in a loose-limbed, lazy sprawl.

Ever so gently, Steve curled his arm around Tony’s thigh and braced the weight of it in the crook of his arm, allowing Tony to lie back and take his pleasure effortlessly. When his spit-slick fingers first brushed against the tender rim of Tony’s opening, his whole body jerked with the jolt of stimulation, and his lips parted against Steve’s in a gasp. Some of the come Steve hadn’t licked out of Tony’s body earlier now coated his fingers, and Steve rubbed his wet fingertips against the sore muscle in leisurely circles until Tony’s hips canted down to meet Steve’s fingers, and his cut-off grunts turned into long, luxurious moans that Steve greedily swallowed.

When Steve pulled back from the kiss, Tony’s mouth hung open, panting for breath even as he softly whined at the loss again. Steve laughed breathlessly and gave in to one more sloppy, lingering kiss before he picked his head up to indulge in the salacious vision his husband made begging to be filled from both ends with the lewd spread of his tired thighs, the roll of his hips, and the soft whimpers that escaped his wet, swollen lips.

It was nearly no effort to shift his position on the mattress, to let his arm curl against Tony’s head on his pillow, to tease those parted lips with his free fingers. He swept the thick pad of his thumb across the flat of Tony’s tongue; as Tony took the bait and closed his lips around Steve’s finger, cradling and stroking the length of Steve’s thumb with his tongue, Steve’s massage of the tender, raw muscle of Tony’s opening grew more firm, more purposeful, until enough come had leaked from Tony’s body and enough soft moans demanding _more_ spilled past his lips that Steve rubbed his fingers wet in the expelled come and pushed three fingers into him.

All at once, Tony’s soft pleading noises became deep, guttural groans of satisfaction, and as the nominal resistance against Steve’s intruding fingers eased away, Steve replaced the thumb in Tony’s mouth with his index, middle, and ring fingers, pumping them in and out of his mouth with the same force and rhythm as in his ass.

“Look at you,” Steve breathed in undisguised awe, devouring the sight of Tony clawing at the bedsheets, his tired, strung out body bowed in ecstasy, with the corded muscles of his thighs and abdomen taut and trembling. “To deserve you… if I could watch you like this for hours,” he rumbled reverently, and Tony’s body jerked and shuddered around Steve’s fingers. Steve moaned under his breath as he rubbed his thumb through the new rush of come that now coated his fingers, marveling at the physical reminder of who Tony had chosen to love, how he indulged Steve’s feral impulse to mark his husband, to claim him over, and over, and over again. Every slow, steady stroke of his thumb across his wet fingers stretched Tony’s further, forcing his body to accommodate the girth of four of Steve’s fingers. Choked off whimpers and groans swelled from deep in Tony’s chest, and Steve gently fought to withdraw his fingers from Tony’s mouth before he gagged himself trying to nurse on Steve’s fingers through the burning stretch.

“No,” Tony gasped, hoarse and breathless, his eyes fixed on the spit-coated fingers that were just out of reach. He arched off the mattress as he struggled to reach them, but there was more Steve wanted from his mouth tonight; Tony sobbed at first when Steve flexed open the fingers that breached his body, stretching Tony until his fifth finger also fit. Without pause or warning, Steve resumed the steady thrusting of his fingers, occasionally twisting and reaching inside him to let his knuckles and fingertips graze past his prostate as he pumped into Tony’s body until he was buried to his last knuckles, the full breadth of his hand.

“I love you, Tony,” he swore in a tone so gentle, so private, that Tony’s keening pleas for release and full-bodied groans nearly drowned Steve’s words out. “To think all those years we could have been here… your grace, your power… your endurance. Come for me, Tony,” he continued more urgently, “let me feel you fall apart, let me hear you… come for me.”

With a deep, broken off groan, Tony’s body arched and convulsed, his hips thrusting up wildly and coating the side of Steve’s face and his own abdomen with thick streaks of come. Steve fucked him through his orgasm, praising him with every breath and brush of his lips, washing him with words of love and wonder, until he eventually, gently, eased his fingers out, one after another. But Tony’s spent body continued to respond to him, continued to spasm and whine and chase his touch, that his fingers came to linger, to softly rub and soothe the twitching, quivering rim of muscle he had only just allowed to rest. 

“How,” Tony rasped when his lungs finally had the oxygen to spare, then somehow mustered the energy to open his eyes and glance down at Steve pressing up on his hands, looming over Tony’s body. Steve looked up to meet Tony’s eyes, never looking away as he eased himself down with perfect control, hovering close enough that Tony could feel the warmth of his skin moments before he felt the flat of Steve’s tongue, wet and warm, lapping up the fresh come painted across his tan skin.

“Fucking— _fuck_ , Steve—no, I can’t—”

Steve stilled at once, poised over Tony’s groin with his teeth pressed against the tender flesh under Tony’s navel, paused in the act of raising goosebumps across his soft skin. He stole one final, indulgent lap against a line of come over Tony’s skin, leaving his body spit-slick but free of come before innocently humming in question. “No more tonight?”

Tony opened his mouth to answer, but no words came at first. “I,” he tried again, still working on catching his breath, “l can’t, b-but, but you—babe, you? You?”

“I’m good, my love,” Steve murmured in reply, crawling up Tony’s body to press an adoring kiss to his temple. “Rest.”

“Yesss, rest,” he promised with a drowsy moan, draping his arms across Steve’s shoulders and bringing his knees up to cradle Steve’s body, crossing his ankles over Steve’s lower back to get some leverage as he tried to urge Steve closer. “Together.”

Steve held himself up by his hands for only a moment, but that was as long as he could resist. He eased his knees further apart and shifted Tony’s body into position with gentle hands, then in a single unhurried thrust, he sunk into Tony’s body smoothly.

“So hard, babe, so close,” Tony purred under his breath, moaning with delight, and sloppily painted Steve’s lips with kisses that served more for tasting his husband’s lips than skilled play. He drew a guttural string of curses from Steve’s throat with a slow and tight turn of his hips, bearing down on his husband’s cock with such a firm grip that every twist of his gyrating hips had Steve’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Give me what I want,” Tony demanded, growling every word softly against the shell of Steve’s ear, turning the shallow, controlled rocking of Steve’s hips became stuttering, erratic thrusts. Tony bit down on his ear then, hard, and sucked Steve’s earlobe into his mouth, and Steve came with a startled cry of Tony’s name, calling for him over and over again like he had fallen from a great height and his husband was all that kept him alive.

With his head buried in the crook of Tony’s neck, it wasn’t clear whether Steve was panting and catching his breath, or if he was overcome with emotions. Tony wrapped his arms around his husband and pressed his heels down against the small of his back to keep him grounded and in place, holding him so tight Steve had just enough room to breathe, but no room for either doubt or guilt to run rampant. He trailed one hand absently up and down along Steve’s spine in lazy, hypnotic circles, and cradled the back of Steve’s head with his other hand.

At first he fisted a handful of his hair tight enough to sting, anchoring him for a solid beat, before releasing and soothing him, carding his fingers gently through Steve’s hair and dragging blunt nails across his scalp. “I forgave you,” Tony whispered against Steve’s temple with a kiss. “I get it, babe, I do: you lied for a long time, that’s scary. I get that. But there’s no question of—of deserving, or treating me badly, only a question of choice,” he continued with more conviction, rubbing his open hand over Steve’s flank in a soothing gesture. “Being your partner is the first choice I make every day. It’s the only question that matters, Steve, and it’s the only answer that I have never regretted.”


	4. A week later

“Ready for a break?” Sharon asked, casually enough. Tony whined in relief and straightened at once, trudging along after her through the vindictively soft sand while gulping down his water as fast as he could manage. 

“Hey, take it easy,” Sharon suggested mildly, then gestured in the direction of the ocean waves. “Enjoy the view. Stretch. Catch your breath. Drink slowly.”

“You’re not even winded,” Tony wheezed in complaint after downing his first bottle of water, and he was already reaching for a second despite her warning. “How?”

The corner of Sharon’s mouth twitched up in a grin, but instead of speaking, she folded gracefully into lotus position in the sand and followed her own advice: stretching while enjoying the view of the waves lazily rolling in, the people laughing and wandering around, and the seagulls keeping watchful eyes on unguarded food. 

Tony struggled with his stiff, tired legs when he tried to sit down next to her, until he eventually gave up and dropped down like a sack of potatoes. 

“I do most of my cardio with water resistance,” she replied when Tony had arranged himself into a comfortable position and his breathing had calmed. “Try sparring in water next time, or jogging in a pool.”

“Yeah, cause I did so well with the sprints,” he muttered, eyeing the tenth of a mile Sharon had marked out on the beach for their drills. “Not at all what I thought, by the way, when you suggested we ‘go for a quick run’ this morning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she pouted with feigned concern. “Did you want to swim with Steve instead?”

Even Tony snorted at the suggestion, though this time he sounded more affectionate than self-deprecating. “He’s probably halfway to Malibu by now.”

“Maybe not,” Sharon said after a brief silence, gently nudging Tony’s arm with her elbow. Tony followed her gaze and easily spotted his husband jogging their way through the smattering of people dotting the beach in the distance. 

“Damn,” Tony cursed under his breath, drinking in the sight of Steve in his swim trunks even from far away. “I’m one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you are,” Sharon hummed softly in agreement, enjoying the view just as much as Tony was. They watched Steve jogging up to them effortlessly, shamelessly staring at him until he was all but standing over them and saying hello, dripping sweat. 

“Christ, get away, Steve, you’re gross,” Tony complained in the seconds it took Steve to crouch down and lean in to give him a quick kiss hello; Tony returned the kiss with a smile, but tried to mask it with a frown when Steve leaned away a moment later. 

“You’re back early. Good run?” Sharon said in lieu of hello while Steve happily stretched out on his belly in the warm sand. Tony leaned forward and, with a grip under Steve’s biceps, started to haul his husband closer. 

“Good run, confusing swim,” Steve answered easily, not lifting a finger to help Tony reel him in. “Didn’t think people surfed this far north.”

“Tourists, maybe,” Sharon agreed, laughing a moment later at Tony’s whoop of triumph when he finally dragged Steve close enough so his husband’s head could rest in his lap. 

“Did you find the Valkyrie?” Tony asked almost absently then, more preoccupied finger-combing Steve’s wet hair into all sorts of different patterns. 

Steve hummed happily in the affirmative. “They were hiding her in the Marina, in Venice.”

“So we got their boats. Where is Barton with the van?”

“He’ll be here by lunchtime,” Tony answered before Steve felt the need to do so. “The interceptor is calibrated, we’ll be ready to go by Friday.”

Sharon hummed to herself and looked out over the ocean in thought. Several quiet minutes passed before she lowered her voice and asked, “He knows I’m here, right?”

When neither Steve nor Tony answered her, she turned to them both with a flat, unimpressed stare. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tony hedged with an encouraging smile. “We’re all adults, aren’t we?”

*** 

“Damnit, Stark!” Clint cursed when Steve laid out the plan later that day. What had been a calm reunion at the Santa Monica Metro station was quickly turning into a backfiring Pinto. Clint palmed the van’s keys in his hands as if to size them up and the damage they could cause if thrown with force, but instead he managed to simply pocket them and continue shouting. 

“Carter? You know how I feel about her! She’s not even part of our team, why the hell did you call her? And before you called me?”

“Kinda getting the feeling you downplayed this, babe,” Tony deadpanned from beside Steve, and he glanced from one to the other before giving Steve a quelling look. “Explain.”

“Barton has… feelings.”

“Right, he just said that. Romantic?”

Steve frowned. “Unrequited.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him, and though he didn’t say anything, he didn’t really have to: Steve recognized his expressions well enough to know he was currently caught between _you didn’t tell me?_ and _you thought NOW would be a good time to tell me?_

“You mean she dumped me,” Clint corrected Steve in a dangerous tone, bringing Tony out of his aggressive but silent eyebrow communication. Instead of ranting at Steve, though, Tony was quick to place himself between them before Clint reconsidered those keys or gathered any more steam, mustering up a placating smile.

“Hey, hey there, man, why don’t we go take your mind off this, yeah? Pizza sounds good, right?” he asked gently, walking closer towards Clint until he had managed to put some distance between him and Steve. “There’s a great place up the road, Sicilian. How’s that sound?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Clint gave in after some thinking, because after a long drive, freshly-made pizza was an easy decision. “But he can’t come.”

“Tony, that’s not—”

Tony glanced back at Steve but he still nodded in reply, and when he turned back to Clint, he promised, “You have my word: he won’t come today.”

*** 

When Tony returned to their room hours later, he found his husband bundled into a pillow nest and polishing off a large serving of deep fried mac and cheese straight from its take-out container. Steve paused mid-bite when Tony walked in, clearly caught a little off guard. 

“Tony, hey, uh,” he trailed off uncertainly and glanced around at the mess of take-out containers spread around him in the bed, with a impressive tower of empty boxes on one side, and a short stack of remaining unopened boxes on the other. “Um. You want some mac and cheese?”

“Sounds perfect,” Tony sighed, so happy to be done with the long day. He dumped his coat, wallet, and keys on the small desk on his way to the bed and kicked off his shoes somewhere along the way. He managed to clear off the debris of Steve’s comfort food while undressing, so that by the time he was ready to crawl into bed, the room was tidy again. Once Tony was settled in against the overabundance of pillows, Steve handed him an unopened box from the stack beside him. 

“How’s Barton?” 

“Better,” Tony mumbled around his first bite, only mildly distracted by how crunchy, creamy, and delicious it was all at once. “Fuck—do I want to know how many of these you’ve had already?”

Steve’s expression quirked a little self-consciously, and slowly, without a word, he shook his head no.

“Fantastic,” Tony sighed, not for the first time grumbling internally about Steve’s obscene and wildly unfair metabolism. “Well, I think I talked him off the ledge. Sharon joined us for drinks. They were talking like adults when I left.”

“Do you think they know we’re setting them up?”

Tony’s expression quirked at the concern in Steve’s voice, and he turned on his side to better face Steve. “Is that why you’re eating your feelings? You’re nervous?”

“Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe it’s none of our business, but they both laughed more when they were together,” Steve shrugged a little, studying the next block of deep fried mac and cheese in his hands. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Babe, I’m pretty sure they’ll figure out what’s going on soon,” Tony said with an affectionate smile, taking Steve’s near hand in his own and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “They’re pretty clever when they want to be.”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right. But, so, uh,” Steve cleared his throat, shoved the last half of his mac and cheese in his mouth all at once to buy some more time, and by the time he had swallowed his bite, wiped his hands clean, and turned back to Tony in bed, he had managed to steel himself for his own question. “Did you mean it, what you said to Barton? About me not coming today?”

“Well… I did give him my word,” Tony answered with a straight face, and for the most part offered no outward indication of how much he was delighting in the way Steve squirmed in the silence that followed. 

“However...” he continued in a decidedly posh old English accent, “Professor Cockburn did not.”

“No, no, no no no,” Steve started to object immediately, though he was grinning (and quietly laughing) too much to be convincing in his argument, or in pushing Tony away as he tried to climb into his lap. “Not Professor Cockburn—Tony!”

“Whyever not, my divine pumpernickel? You love Professor Cockburn.”

“Pumper—stop it, Tony, I can’t—they’ll hear us, and you say the most ridiculous things when you’re in that voice! If they—”

Well into his lap already, Tony ground down against Steve’s cock until there were more moans of pleasure escaping Steve’s lips than laughing, half-hearted protests. He hummed against Steve’s lips in praise, and continued in Professor Cockburn’s distinct persona. “How irresistible you are, my archaic wildflower,” he whispered, his lips so close to Steve’s that they brushed together with every word, echoes of many kisses not yet shared. “Hold your tongue, and allow me to study the peaks and valleys of your glorious body like the treasure map that it is.”

“Babe, we shouldn’t,” Steve tried one last time, though with far less conviction; he wetted his lips, lapping playfully at Tony’s lips as he did. “Cockburn gets us in trouble—worse than usual.”

“Hush, my Adonis, I will entertain no more of your flimsy pretexts,” Tony growled in feigned annoyance. “Now, if you would but hold your tongue, I am going to part your legs like the Red Sea. You will be at my mercy, and when I swear that I will then defile you, do not doubt my word: I shall take what I desire from you until I am satisfied of all that you have to give, and forthwith you shall rue the day you crossed my path, for no other man will know to satisfy you as I have. Now, lie back, Irishman, if you know what is good for you.”

*** 

“This is as close as we’ll get,” Sharon informed them from the passenger seat, as Clint parked the van on the cliffside. They were about half a mile from the mansion where the festivities were being held, and a hundred feet closer to the ocean. “Steve, ready?”

She climbed into the back of the van where Tony was getting Steve set up with his wires, taping them in with care so they wouldn’t show through Steve’s tailored dress shirt every time he breathed in too deeply. 

“Tell me the plan again,” Tony asked them, without looking up from his work. 

“We enter at 2200. This is a no-contact mission; no targets to be engaged at any time. I will proceed to the north side of the home and get his office, and the west-facing balcony.”

With his arms held up to avoid interfering with Tony’s work, Steve continued. “I will cover the south side, and take the kitchen, bedroom, and cellar.”

“Get in, bug ‘em, get the hell out of there,” Clint repeated, because Sharon and Steve weren’t exactly known for their ability to resist engaging targets. “No engaging any targets.” 

“We got it the first time,” Sharon noted dryly as she double-checked the supplies they were carrying with them to the house. 

“Did you? Cause neither of you two have a history of being careful.” 

“Why don’t you do something useful, like keep an eye on the boats?”

“I _am_ keeping an eye on the boats: four of them are already docked, one is docking, and one is fifteen minutes out.”

Sharon rolled her eyes as Tony came around to set up her wires like he had for Steve, which thankfully was made easier with a dress and structured undergarments. 

“Focus!” Steve all but shouted over their bickering, and thankfully, that was all it took for Clint and Sharon to quiet down. “We’re all we got. There is no back-up, there is no extraction unit. There is no legitimate chain of command. Orell Messerli is the last lead we’ve got on the people who infiltrated the DC. We’ve got this one shot, and I’m going to need all of you on the same page, punching for the same side. I called you because I trust you. I believe we can do this, if we work together. Now, are we ready? Sharon?”

Sharon nodded in the affirmative, and with a final clear from Tony, she stepped out of the van. Before Steve got a chance to follow her, however, Tony grabbed him by the belt and pulled him down for one more kiss. 

“I want you back in one piece,” he whispered against his husband’s lips. “Go. Give them hell.”

“I love you,” Steve told him one more time before he left, shutting the van’s door behind him.

“Am I the only one with a bad feeling about this?” Clint muttered as he climbed into the back of the van to help Tony with surveying monitors, but his attempt at sarcasm was weaker than usual. 

“I always have a bad feeling about sending him into the lion’s den,” Tony said with a sigh, bringing up their screens one after another as easy as breathing. “At least he’s not alone this time.”

“Yeah, Carter’s got some sense,” Clint conceded. “And Steve’s wearing that shirt you got him, right?”

Tony snorted quietly at Clint’s source of comfort. “He is. Let’s just hope he can keep it on.” They shared a look; Clint snorted and Tony ruefully shook his head. “Yeah, I won’t hold my breath.”

*** 

Sharon sauntered into the party on the arm of a man she met on the stairs at the mansion; Steve climbed the side of the mountain and vaulted the railings of the balcony unseen, blending into the crowds of Aryan fanatics seamlessly. They chatted and visited with one group of people after another, always staying long enough to share a smile or a compliment, but never long enough to be remembered. 

Back in the van, Tony and Clint kept one eye on the docks, the multiple security feeds, and one eye on re-runs of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. 

“I love Tom Hanks,” Clint said around a mouthful of Pirate’s Booty. 

“You’re just saying that cause you like the way he sucks and blows that mouth organ,” Tony replied, and when Clint held his hand up with a straight face, Tony burst into giggles and high-fived him. 

“Stark’s en route to the kitchen,” Clint noted, and with a few taps of the keyboard, Tony double checked that the internal security feed was on a loop so he would go unnoticed, also confirming while he was at it that Sharon’s exit from Messerli’s office was clean. “Carter moving to the second floor.”

“She’s almost done,” Tony said absently, and glanced at Clint to add, “loading the boats yet?” 

“No significant movement; changes in weight all accounted for by staff.”

A soft alarm beeped from the other side of the van, and Tony rolled over to double-check the monitor. “Johann Betz ring any bells?”

Clint shook his head and glanced over in Tony’s direction, though still giving most of his attention to the mass of monitors in front of him. “What’s up?” 

Tony studied the algorithm for another few seconds before his mind was made up. He snatched up the leather jacket off his chair and grabbed the camera shades off the desk on his way out the door. 

“Get an ID; he’s been following Steve’s movements, it can’t be coincidence,” he told Clint in a rush, “Get Carter out. If we’re not back in ten minutes, rendezvous at the Pier in an hour.”

He slammed the door shut before Clint could object, and took off for the mansion in a sprint. 

*** 

Tony slipped into the mansion through the unguarded kitchen staff entrance, where he quickly exchanged his leather jacket for an abandoned waiter’s vest. He picked up a platter of champagne flutes, and rushed out into the mingling guests with his eyes peeled for his husband. 

It didn’t take too long to find him. The doors to the third-floor balcony had been locked without explanation, but from the right window, Tony could make out a small gang of large men gathered around Steve. Tony couldn’t tell whether they had Steve at gunpoint, or if they had secured his hands in some way behind his back, but that all felt secondary to the threat of Orell Messerli smirking with the grand delight of the cat who had caught the canary and was now playing with his food. 

Tony managed to crack the window open just enough, and with the wind blowing the right way, he could pick up some of the conversation. 

“That’s quite the story, Mr. Grant, though I admit you surprise me,” Messerli lamented loftily. “You invite yourself to my bedroom and thought no-one would notice? Of course, under other circumstances this would not trouble me,” he leered, drawing a proprietary hand over Steve’s firm chest and torso while two of his men kept Steve obediently on his knees at gunpoint. “An apt punishment for you, perhaps? Please me tonight, and you might find me a more forgiving man in the morning.”

Had Tony been a patient man, he might have fallen back and waited for the goons to drag Steve away to the bedroom for his punishment. There, the risk of a botched escape might have been lower; at least, he would remain unseen and unknown to Messerli. 

But there was no telling how quickly Messerli might identify Steve’s connection to SHIELD, or discover that the man he held captive was a super-soldier. Hell, there was no telling how heavily the bedroom would be guarded with a captive left inside, but right now, with only twenty yards separating them, Tony could easily count and assess the threat of Messerli’s henchmen. 

He set the plate down on the nearest table, and draped his vest over it for added measure, before he threw open the doors to the balcony and made a beeline for Messerli. 

As predicted, two of the henchmen intercepted Tony well before he reached the Swiss businessman currently admiring his husband’s physique, but when he identified himself as a surveillance operator with critical information about the captive, the henchmen released him. 

“Herr Messerli, he says he has information,” one of them said to Messerli, who sighed wearily already, but eventually came to see what Tony had to say. 

“And you are?”

“Your security, mein Herr,” Tony said with a small bow of his head. “I recognized him as soon as I saw him: He’s a CIA mole.”

Messerli frowned thoughtfully, glancing back at Steve with some disappointment. “You are sure of this?”

“Confirmed it personally, mein Herr. CIA’s firewall is not what it once was,” Tony added with a self-satisfied smirk that earned him an appreciative nod in return. 

“A pity and a waste,” Messerli sighed. He looked Tony up and down instead, blatantly leering, and finally, he asked, “Tell me your name.”

“Otto Baumann, mein Herr.”

“Gun,” Messerli instructed and immediately a pistol was placed into his waiting hand. “Here, Herr Baumann. Show your allegiance to me, and I assure you that I will find better use for you than being hidden in the basement with security.”

“With pleasure, mein Herr,” Tony smirked, and considered the weight of the pistol in his hand. Fully loaded, seventeen rounds. It would take no time to kill Messerli and his eight henchmen, and dive off the balcony with Steve, hoping for the best. 

But their covers would be blown. This was more than one skirmish: this was a war. With SHIELD buckling under the Hydra’s growing power, there really was no other way out. 

Tony walked up to Steve, where the henchmen were still holding him obediently on his knees at gunpoint. “Your kind, you’re all so predictable,” he sighed, and he kneeled in front of Steve to unbutton his shirt and reveal the wire he had been carrying. He pulled it out, including the small receiver, and stuffed it into the pocket of a surprised henchman within reach. Tony slipped his hands under Steve’s shirt and felt all around his body to double-check if he had other wires on him, and satisfied that he had found them all, he gave him a dark smile and buttoned his shirt back up right up to his throat. 

“Next time you want our secrets, ask first. You are a handsome man, I am sure some exchange could have been arranged,” Tony murmured, then stood up and gestured for the henchmen to step aside. “Any last words?” Tony asked Steve while casually checking his gun over, confirming his suspicion that it was fully loaded. 

Steve sneered at him, but turned his glare on Messerli as he snarled. “Rot in hell.”

There was no pause, no hesitation. Tony raised his gun, and at point blank range, unloaded the entire clip in Steve’s chest, sending him stumbling backwards until a final shot to the heart toppled him over the balcony and a four hundred foot drop into the freezing Pacific waters. 

“You,” Messerli breathed, “are magnificent. Klaus, retrieve the body; Gustav, there has been a change in my dinner plans. Otto, you must join me,” Messerli insisted, his voice lowered to a more private octave. “Tonight, we shall get to know each other better.”

“It will be my pleasure, mein Herr,” Tony replied with a bashful smile, and he easily obeyed the guidance of the warm hand pressing against his lower back. 

“Not so fast.”

The familiar gravelly voice caught Tony’s attention first. A cold chill ran down his spine, and he looked up to see Rumlow staring him down from the open doors to the balcony. 

“Tony Stark, caught on your very first field mission?” he mused, and without waiting for a response, turned to Messerli. “Sitwell could not join us tonight, sir, but the man you have apprehended is a SHIELD operative. If he is here, his husband will not be far away. Give him to me, and I will get you the information you need.”

The henchmen behind Messerli wasted no time grabbing Tony and pulling him a safe distance from their boss. 

“Get him out of my sight,” Messerli hissed, shaking his hand as if he had touched something filthy. “He is yours, do with him as you wish. I await your report by morning.”

Rumlow watched Messerli disappear into the mansion, and with Tony’s hands cuffed behind his back, he was free to grasp Tony by the jaw and bring him close enough to taste. 

“What was it you said, Stark?” Rumlow rumbled, drinking him in with a look that bared his every lecherous intention. “It will be my pleasure.”


	5. Six months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Graphic depictions of violence applies here, references to sexual violence/non-con.

“Sergeant, I understand that you asked to speak with me.” 

Bucky looked up from tablet he and Clint had been studying, and both of them stood up as Rhodes approached, still wearing the combat fatigues he had arrived in from his latest mission. 

“Colonel,” Bucky replied tersely in greeting, and Clint cleared his throat loudly as if to remind Bucky of their position. Bucky swallowed down the words he wanted to throttle Rhodes with, and instead gave himself enough time to calm down and ask, “Where is Steve?”

“He is safe.”

Despite his earlier composure, Clint was the first to lose his poise. “He didn’t ask HOW—”

“It’s been weeks. _Months_ ,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, speaking over Clint’s outburst. “We understand that his actions were wrong—he knows it, too—but face it, Colonel, he’s the best chance we’ve got to get your best friend back.”

“Is that right?” Rhodes replied with unnatural calm. “Messerli is dead. Rumlow is paralyzed and blinded; he can’t write, can’t identify potential leads—he can’t give us shit thanks to your damn Captain. That vigilante bullshit you all pulled in California didn’t just get Tony kidnapped; it showed Hydra your hand, and now there is no SHIELD. Which means Hydra can do whatever the fuck they want _and_ leave sleeper cells to be re-absorbed into the government with all the other SHIELD agents. I am trying to find Tony, to clean up _the Captain’s_ mess, and you want me to treat him with what? Respect?” he asked with palpable contempt. “Fuck you.” 

“We’ve been reading the reports coming in on Hydra, and with all due respect,” Clint replied with bite as he threw the word back in Rhodey’s face, “you can’t be everywhere at once. There are elected representatives with suspected Hydra connections all over the country, including the White House. We’re just asking you to reconsider putting Stark back in the fight before we lose more ground.”

“What is the story you want to tell Tony, when he comes back?” Bucky added before Rhodes could shoot Clint’s idea down. “That you imprisoned his husband indefinitely for reacting violently to the news that he had been taken, or that you gave Steve a second chance?”

Rhodes looked from Bucky to Clint, conflicted for only a moment. “I will speak with him again,” he replied in the end and, turning on his heel, walked away without another word. 

*** 

They kept him in the basement. That’s what they had come to call it, the dank, distant cell six stories beneath ground level, where sunshine and fresh air were artificial, and security was virtually unnecessary. There was nowhere to go. But Rhodes hadn’t lied; they fed him well, all the calories that his metabolism required, and they provided him with the equipment and space to exercise. 

Not that Steve could stomach food, or had the energy to stand, let alone run. 

He was a hollow man, a planet whose guiding star had been extinguished. How selfish he had been all those years ago, to think he deserved the love of a man like Tony. How ironic that even a man who lived to see as many decades and advancements in human society as he did could not learn that no one survived his love. Not his parents, not his best friend, not his best girl, and not his husband. His brilliant, fearless husband who had thrown himself into the fray without a thought to save Steve, and not only pulled it off, but also managed to get them a new lead by making sure that the wire was still on when he had stuffed it into the bodyguard’s pocket. Clint was able to unequivocally identify Rumlow and Sitwell as double agents. 

Except that had not been enough. 

They lost Sitwell to a cyanide capsule in the middle of SHIELD HQ where he was confronted. Weeks later, when Steve’s team had caught up to Rumlow, it had only taken him a handful of pithy words to incense Steve beyond control. 

_He was beautiful when he cried._

_He would call for you, when he slept._

_He was mine._

It had been so satisfying then, to feel Rumlow’s bones fissure under the palms of his hands, to feel the blood and fluids of his eyes pop and spill around Steve’s thumbs as he blinded the traitor for all that he had seen. For everything he had dared to take from Tony, and from Steve. 

The medics saved Rumlow’s life, but there was little left of him by then. He was of no use to them, and the clues in their search for Tony came to an end. 

That was five months ago. 

“Your friends insist that I speak with you again.” 

Steve looked up from the notebook in which he was mindlessly sketching when he heard the sound of Rhodey’s voice. 

“Are you here to let me go?”

Rhodes stepped into the cell alone, and let the door lock behind him. “Why would I do a thing like that?” he mused, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Have you found my husband?” When Rhodes denied it, Steve turned back to his sketchbook. “If you’re not letting me go, leave. You need to be out there; you’re the best chance Tony’s got left.”

“No thanks to you,” Rhodes agreed, walking around until he could sit down on a chair near Steve’s desk. “But your friends are convinced we would have a better chance with you out there, instead of locked up in here. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with them.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Steve hissed through his gritted teeth. “I don’t care what you think—just, I’m begging you, Rhodes: find Tony. Please. Whatever it takes. He needs you.”

“And I need backup,” Rhodes confessed with a sincerity that gave Steve pause. “Listen, I’m being blocked by my superiors everywhere I turn. I don’t know if it’s Hydra, I don’t know if it’s another enemy you guys at SHIELD dug up, but I know sabotage when I see it. The most reliable intel so far says there’s a Hydra post out in Detroit. There’s no activity that we can tell, but your kid Parker is convinced that an unusual amount of intelligence is being trafficked across the border into Detroit. And, if my suspicions are right about the sabotage,” he added in a more careful tone, “any move I make could alert whoever is on my back that Parker got this new lead.”

Steve swallowed deliberately before his heart beat its way out of his chest, and he managed a curt nod to indicate that he understood Rhodes’ need for secrecy. “How can I help?”

“Hydra cracked eight SHIELD HQs around the country in two months; the border might be how they’ve managed to move intel past us for so long. But that means they know our faces, they know our MOs,” Rhodes began, “but Parker… interns aren’t exactly widely known in SHIELD. Tony believes the kid’s got talent. That’s good enough for me, and he’s young enough to pass for some slick wiz-kid. Take him to Detroit, get him hooked into with Hydra. Do you understand it is imperative that you are not seen or recognized?”

“Wouldn’t Natasha be better for this?” Steve whispered unevenly, at the risk of losing his chance to personally hunt down the scum standing between him and his husband. 

“She’d be better for the mission, sure,” Rhodes conceded honestly, “but for Parker’s safety, you’re the better choice. You know how much Tony cares about the kid. He would trust you to pull the plug on the mission if Parker is in danger.” 

Steve stared at Rhodes until he was too ashamed to meet his gaze. His eyes turned down to the sketchbook in front of him. An incomplete study of Tony’s laughing face looked back at him; the whole notebook, in fact, examined his husband’s expressions, from his downplayed (and vehemently denied) excitement anytime the Mets played, to the rolled eyes Steve earned every time he reminded Tony that Columbo was in fact the greatest TV detective series of all time, or the rejuvenating light that dawned over Tony’s face every morning with his first cup of coffee. 

Six months without his husband. Six months of hearing Tony’s laughter turn to screams in his worst nightmares, powerless to bear anything but the guilt and the heartache. Six months of waking up to an imagined kiss or the sound of familiar footsteps, only to remember that with all his strength and all his speed, there was nothing he could do to protect the one person he vowed to love and protect. 

Six months with no indication that Tony was even alive. 

“I can’t,” he whispered. 

Rhodes blinked in surprise and sat up a little straighter in the chair. “What’s that?”

“I can’t promise that I’ll pull the plug,” Steve repeated, a little louder. 

A long, tense silence hung between them, until the Colonel stood up, righted his uniform, and simply shook his head. 

“You may be a possessive man, an impulsive man, a short-tempered man. But my best friend vouched for you. He said you are a good man, a caring man. A self-less man. I trust him, so I will trust you. An EMP will go off tomorrow at 0432. A car will be ready to take you to the airport. Parker will meet you there. Good luck, Captain.”

*** 

“There’s a salt mine _under_ the city,” Peter was telling Steve when they walked into their hotel room, endlessly relaying he’d learned about Detroit from the in-flight magazine. “It was also the last stop of the Underground Railroad—and! Did you know this was the birthplace of Motown?”

Steve tossed his own bag on the bed nearest the door and tried not to sigh. “I was frozen at the time, so, no. I missed that.”

“There’s a museum and everything—oh, you—oh,” Peter’s excitement stammered to a halt in sudden discomfort. “ _Oh,_ I’m so—”

“Set up the equipment,” Steve told him before Peter started apologizing in earnest. “I’ll get cameras up on the perimeter. Under no circumstances are you to leave this room, do you understand?” 

“Yessir,” Peter said immediately, then held his breath and waited, unmoving, until Steve left the room. He gave Steve thirty seconds to walk away from the door before collapsing in his bed for the five minutes of freaking out that Tony always told him were acceptable. Less than that was unsatisfying, and more would interfere with productivity, but five minutes was a fair compromise. 

By the time Steve returned to the room, Peter had not only gotten himself connected to the hotel security and operations controls, but the ATM, security, and traffic cameras for a ten block radius. Using Tony’s old programs, the operation practically ran itself so that Peter could comfortably oversee the monitors while hanging out with the funnies in the Tuesday paper and a full pack of Oreos without missing a beat. 

“Don’t spoil your appetite,” Steve told him, apropos of nothing, and dropped a bag of take-out on the desk next to Peter’s newspaper. He didn’t linger or say anything else, but sat down by the window to study the map of the city again. 

Peter practically dove into the bag and dug the souvlaki wrap out with a cheer of thanks. “This is so good,” he mumbled around his first massive bite, then, after he’d swallowed, he frowned a little at Steve. “You ate already?”

“Sure,” Steve said non-committally, and without looking up at Peter, he asked a question in return. “You get set up?”

“Yeah, was easy,” Peter said with a mouthful of food, “not too easy, actually—but, like, the bank was worse, you know? The ATMs. Those took ten minutes, had to redirect Mr. Stark’s security key. I flagged cell sites, too, just in case, cause—”

Steve turned his attention on Peter then, and it was enough to silence him mid-sentence. “I don’t care how you do it,” he said in a clipped tone. “Find them.”

“Right, of course sir, but I—it’s important, I think—”

“What is it?” Steve cut in, teeth grinding in his impatience. 

“I, um,” Peter stared at him like a deer in headlights at first, struggling to recover from the momentary panic. “In the last, um in the last quarter we’ve not seen so much Hydra intel, right—I mean, it’s—there’s no SHIELD and there’s other, uh, problematic—but so, I just thought it’s—what we have seen is really similar, and that was first how I realized it was Detroit, you know, this is where we saw that first—”

“The point being?” 

“I’m not even sure it’s a big cell,” Peter admitted almost in a whisper. “It’s—I don’t know what it is, we haven’t—it’s not, it’s just that, you know, it definitely stands out, but when we do find them, it’s… I think the size is going to matter, for um, how we approach them? How we break in? It’s not going to be the usual ...operation,” he finished lamely, as if he wasn’t sure he was using the right words. 

Steve continued silently staring at Peter after he finished talking, as if he had only been waiting for Peter to finish rather than listening to him. After an awkward, silent pause, he asked, “Can you explain how your theory is supposed to help me? No? Cause I’d rather you get back to work, if you don’t mind, and do your damn job.”

“Yessir,” Peter peeped, spinning his chair right back around so he was facing the much safer, and much less antagonistic monitors. Not long after that, he heard Steve getting up from his seat, not daring to move in his seat until those heavy boots strode out of the hotel room and the door shut behind him. 

*** 

Peter stirred awake in the middle of the night to furtive, muffled noises he couldn’t recognize. He glanced around the dark room, but there was nobody there with him. Steve hadn’t come back to the room that night, and his bed remained untouched. None of the phones were ringing, and the computers were silent and turned down. Peter had almost convinced himself that it was his anxiety that had woken him up when he finally heard _something._

He crawled out of bed and tiptoed around the room to the bathroom door where he could make out a series of quiet, hitching breaths. Carefully, he nudged the bathroom door open and peered into the dark room. Without the help of windows that allowed tendrils of streetlight to fade into the room, it took Peter longer than it should have to identify the outline of a body huddled, shaking, between the bathtub and the toilet, as Steve, broken and sobbing with his face hidden in his hands. 

“Mr. America?” he whispered, disbelieving. “Sir, are you okay? Are you—are you crying? No, what—no, no you’re—I can fix this, just—two seconds!” 

Before Steve could process what had happened, or at least try to dispel Peter of his impulse to help, Peter disappeared to get the duvet from Steve’s unused bed. Without waiting for an invitation, Peter draped it over Steve’s shoulders with firm hands, hands that not only felt the tremble of Steve’s broad shoulders, but were strong enough to hold on and offer the stability that was slipping through Steve’s fingers. 

“Tony would’ve hated this place,” Steve blubbered helplessly, the words spilling out of him before he could stop them. “I can hear him now, I can hear him complain about the wallpaper, the—the comforter, the, the stupid curtains. I can hear, everything, everything, he—if he’d just dated that fucking banker one day longer, he should—he should have never met me, he—”

At a loss for words, Peter hugged Steve’s shoulders tightly and tried to rub at his arms the way Aunt May would do when he came home from particularly frustrating days at school. “We’ll find him, sir. It’s—it’s Mr. Stark we’re talking about, he—he’ll find a way, you know’s well as I do he’ll wrap them ‘round his finger in no time, he’s cleverer than all of Hydra put together.”

“He deserved better—Peggy, she deserved; Bucky, for decades they kept him, what if—”

“Okay, we’re going to get up now,” Peter interrupted Steve before he said too much, and with a firm grip on Steve’s arms, he guided Steve to his feet. Step by uneven step, they shuffled out of the bathroom together until Peter let Steve sink into the desk chair. 

“Look, sir, I—with all due respect, Mr. Stark never did anything he didn’t want, not in the time we worked together. And frankly, sir, I don’t think he’d appreciate you taking credit for his decisions—good or bad.”

Despite all the fear and guilt roiling within him, Steve’s lips turned up in a helpless, wry smile. “He wouldn’t. Not the first time we met,” he added in distant voice, “not even when it would make life easier.”

“At the bookstore?” Peter wondered, curious despite himself. “He told me, a little I mean—I, uh, well, there’s this—this girl—young woman—she lives, um, next door to us—to me and my aunt, and I, I asked Mr. Stark how he, how he met you.”

The memory of how they had first met had always been one that Steve cherished endlessly, and bittersweet as it was in Tony’s absence, it still made him smile. 

“Did he tell you what a scene he made?” Steve wondered, and Peter shook his head immediately. “I was at Kramerbooks in DC. Looking for _Equal Rites_ , Clint said… Clint said it was good. Tony ran into me on his way out the door; and I—I didn’t hear him, the first ten seconds, he made no sense, until I realized he was talking about the author. It was my first Pratchett, he—he was almost offended, so we talked. Then this guy walking by stopped us and asked Tony what he was doing. Asked if Tony’d bailed on their date to see me. Tony let him have it,” Steve added with a quiet, nostalgic laugh. “No, ‘I left to get away from your shitty monologuing.’ And when he finished and the guy had ran out, I asked him out for a drink.”

“He didn’t say, about the other guy,” Peter said after a contemplative silence. “Just about the book, that you guys like reading together.”

Whatever peace the memory of their first date had inspired in Steve faded away as he was brought back to the present. He didn’t have to look to know _The Book of Unknown Americans_ sat unfinished on the bedside table next to the generic hotel telephone. The bookmark was still where Tony had last left off in Santa Monica, waiting for Steve to open it next. It was his turn. 

“Sir? Are you—did I say something—”

Steve looked him in the eye for the first time that night. “Ask her out,” he said without waiting for Peter to finish. “When we get back, don’t waste another day. Ask her out to the bookstore, take her to Kramerbooks. Have lunch. Pay for the bill; don’t even look at it. Tip well. And if she doesn’t like books, move on.”

“Sir?”

“Peter, you’re the only one standing in your way,” Steve promised him. “You don’t want to know what it feels like to face forever without a tomorrow.”


	6. Five days later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Graphic depictions of violence also applies here.

“Spider to Eagle. Bad news.”

Steve thanked the waitress for his coffee without reacting to Peter’s voice in his ear, and turned back to his crossword puzzle before responding. “Talk.”

“I’m in,” Peter whispered, “but intranet’s no good; we’re going to need the General’s personal computer.”

It took Steve longer than necessary to make up his mind. Their original assumption that the local Hydra ringleader, known only as the General, had his fingers in enough intelligence Hydra passed to be informed about Tony, had been further supported by everything Peter had learned from them in the past two days on the inside. Yet they had not been able to get through the security systems in place to access to General’s private communications from the outside. They were already taking a great chance breaking into the old Bankers Trust Company building where their operations were set up to patch directly into the internal network. 

“Sir?”

The truth was, they were not prepared to push further. Without backup, every second Peter spent in that building tonight added to their chances of getting caught. To Peter’s chances of getting caught. Steve was safely across the street; he knew where the kid was, but even the minute it would take for him to break through to his location was a minute that could be Peter’s last. 

And yet, the same could be said for Tony. 

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve tried everything—quadruple checked!” Peter whispered adamantly, “I can’t crack his personal security; it’s this lock, C-A-N-T-A? That mean anything, sir?”

Steve’s ignorance came through in his silence. 

Should he call Peter back, while they were still safe? Or push their luck? 

Tony needed them to push. 

“Fall back.” 

“Sir,” Peter replied after a beat, and damn if Steve didn’t recognize that tone. It was all Tony’s, the one he used when he was making light of something important. “They’re all in the Director’s office—”

“Spider, you have your orders,” Steve growled across the line, and the pen he’d been doing his crossword with shattered, staining his hand with black ink. “Fall back, now.”

“Yessir.”

Steve heard a soft shuffle of movement, which he interpreted as Peter packing up; he absently wiped at his hand with a napkin as he listened, holding his breath for any telltale signs of Peter walking away. 

Their luck didn’t last long enough. 

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Steve shot through the parking lot with all his speed, and plowed through the door into the stairwell where Peter had positioned himself in the safety of the shadows, but the kid was nowhere to be seen. He cursed the kid’s tenacity, and followed the most likely path: out the hallway to the vault, where the General’s personal computer was kept. 

Peter was kneeling on the floor when Steve caught up to them, his hands on the back of his head, with two of the General’s henchmen over him. 

“We caught a rat,” one of them was announcing on his radio, “that kid from Harlem.”

“Queens, actually,” Peter said, looking the man dead in the eye. 

The man pistol-whipped him hard enough the crack echoed in the empty bank. “Tell the General I can take care of the little shit personally.”

“Big, tough guy, picking on kids,” Steve commented casually as he stepped out of the shadows. “How about somebody your own size?”

“Who the hell are you?” the second guy snarled, while the guy with the radio relayed the presence of another uninvited visitor to the rest of their crew. 

“A good samaritan.”

That was the only warning they got before Steve lunged for them; he wrenched the first guy’s head down into his knee with his left hand and strangled the man with the radio in his right. 

“Tell them I’m coming,” he whispered softly into the dying man’s ear, then dropped the twitching corpse on the checkered tiles. 

The door to the teller floor burst open and half a dozen armed men poured in, the first of who rounded Peter up with a gun to the boy’s head. “Hands behind your head, now!” he shouted, “or the kid gets it.”

Bleeding from a gash across his temple and cheek, and a gun bruising the back of his head, Peter still met Steve’s gaze and shook his head no. But there was no room for negotiation with those odds, not if Steve was going to get Peter out of it alive. Without a word, Steve obeyed, raising his hands and bringing them to the back of his head. He didn’t even resist when one of the Hydra soldiers barreled forward to put him in handcuffs. 

“I guess it’s your lucky day, Pete,” the man holding Peter told him with a triumphant smirk. “You finally get to meet the General himself. He says he’d like the honors of putting you down personally.”

“What, I don’t get a final meal?” Peter asked, aghast. “I’m still growing, I think. I mean, I hope?”

“What’s the hold up!?” someone shouted from the end of the hall. 

Under threat of guns and violence, they dragged Steve and Peter through to the director’s room in the southwest side of the building. In difference to the empty teller’s work floor, the director’s room was decadently furnished with period pieces, and the tiles so well-polished that they gleamed in the waning sunlight. In the natural cover of dusk, the room was cast in shadows, and the identities of the two people within it were obscured. One figure sat on the restored Chesterfield sofa, legs casually crossed as he observed the scene, while another sat in the wingback chair behind the grand mahogany desk. 

“We caught the rat, mein General,” the man holding Peter announced as Peter and Steve were thrown to the floor. “His accomplice killed Hans.”

The man behind the table cut them off with a delicate turn of his hand. 

“Leave us.”

The soldiers responded at once, bowing their heads before exiting the room and closing the door behind them; Steve gave Peter a sideways look and raised a brow, one that pointed out how obedient Hydra’s people clearly were, and Peter had enough sense to look contrite. 

“Who’s this, Peter?” the man asked, with a faint but unmistakably Germanic bite to his consonants. “Your father?”

“My father’s dead,” Peter replied with a slight shrug, “but thanks for bringing it up.”

“How fortunate then, that you shall join them soon,” the man said. “We can be helpful, in fact. Tell me what you are after, and I give my word it will be painless.”

“We can give you something better,” Steve said before Peter had a chance to sass them back, which apparently the kid was more likely to do than Steve had initially assumed. “In exchange for Peter’s safety.”

The man on the couch unholstered a pistol and started to fiddle with it, and although he remained obscured by the shadows, Steve could only guess he was attaching a silencer. Before he could aim or even cock the weapon in their direction, however, his hand was stayed by a simple gesture from the man running the show from behind the desk. 

“SHIELD is destroyed,” he said, “your last agents scattered. You are no threat, to Hydra or to this operation. What could you have to bargain with us now?”

“I know about the serum. Everything that SHIELD had,” Steve told him, then he cleared his throat before continuing. “Let the boy go safely, and I will tell you where they keep it.”

A faint whistle cut through the silence, and immediately the man in the wingback chair fell forward into the desk with a lifeless thump. Peter stared, wide-eyed, while Steve whirled around to stare at the only other person in the room. 

“It’s not a trick,” he promised as he cast around for a way to place himself between the killer and Peter, but the man was already standing and moving closer to them. “I’ve been with SHIELD for decades, I can be—”

Steve’s words died in his throat at the same time as Peter gasped. 

“Missed me?”

“Mr. Stark? Is that you?” 

A rage surged through Steve unlike any other; his husband, turned by Hydra? Kept as a soldier like they had kept Bucky all those years? He leapt to his feet faster than Tony could aim his weapon at him, leveraging his full weight with a powerful twist of his body to sweep his leg across Tony’s neck and taking him down to the floor in a chokehold between his calf and his thigh.

He had rescued his best friend from Hydra’s brainwashing, and, whatever the price, he would save his husband, too. 

“Babe!” Tony croaked breathlessly before Steve knocked him out. “‘s me!”

A cold chill clawed its way down Steve’s spine, and cautiously, he eased the pressure around Tony’s throat. 

“It’s me, Steve,” Tony managed before hacking and gulping down air; he raised his free hand and patted Steve’s thigh weakly. “Let up, honey.”

Steve desperately studied Tony’s red face, wanting to believe him, but somehow finding it too convenient. “How do I know it’s you?”

“Because I’m the one who destroyed SHIELD,” Tony whispered, “I’m the General. Gun?” he added, when Steve only squeezed down on his throat for such lies, and soon the gun clattered to the tiled floor. Peter scrambled to his feet and picked it up, cocking it and training it on Tony, albeit with shaking hands. 

“My husband is a good man,” Steve hissed down at this fraudulent Tony, unmoved by the voluntary act of trust when a cruel will occupied his husband’s mind. “He would never double-cross SHIELD.”

“Steve!” Tony gasped, but it was no use—Steve was squeezing too tight, and consciousness was quickly escaping him. “Disco!”

Instinctively, Steve pulled back, and Tony struggled against his impulse to choke down oxygen before speaking. Time was too precious. “SHIELD—SHIELD is Hydra,” he wheezed unevenly, “please—Steve, trust me.”

“Why should I?”

Tony looked up at him, and even though his face was red from the struggle to breathe while Steve’s leg still hugged his throat in warning, he smiled up at his husband. 

“Because I’m your partner, Steve,” he said quietly, “it’s a decision I make every day, before SHIELD, before anyone. Give me a chance to prove it to you.”

Slowly, if reluctantly, Steve rose on the balls of his feet until Tony could pull free and sit up on his knees beside his husband. He rubbed at his throat absently, and grinned up at Peter. 

“You did good, kid,” he said, clearing his throat a number of times in a row. “There’s a laptop on the desk. Open it, and engage the Ninth Circle protocol.”

Peter glanced at Steve for confirmation, and he didn’t lower his weapon until Steve nodded in the affirmative. He handed the gun to Steve then and hurried to the desk; after weeks of combing through their system, it took him nearly no time to locate the Ninth Circle. 

“System engaged,” he read out loud, “blocked from activation; CANTA?”

Without looking away from Steve’s suspicious gaze, Tony raised his hand and spoke into his watch. “All I want is you,” he sang softly, “no-one else will do, take my love, take my love, take me.”

Steve stared at him, suddenly breathless himself. Their song; their first dance as married men. 

“Tony?” he whimpered in heartfelt disbelief at the same time as Peter cheered, “That’s it!” 

Steve’s eyes rolled back into his head, and Tony watched in helpless shock as his husband fainted and dropped to the floor with a solid _thump_. 

“He—he faints?” Tony stammered in his surprise, scrambling to Steve’s side and lifting his head into his lap. “Steve doesn’t—babe?” he demanded in undertone, shaking Steve’s shoulder gently. “Wake up, Steve, we’re kind of on a timeline here.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked in a voice that suggested he was trying to be calm. “Isn’t something supposed to, you know, happen?”

“It’s already happened,” Tony answered absently, far more concerned with trying to revive his unconscious husband. Gently, he cupped Steve’s face and brushed the blond hair back. “Steve? You need to wake up, honey, I can’t carry you like this. Don’t make me slap you.”

“No,” Steve moaned then, and after a short struggle his eyelids fluttered open. “No slapping.”

“Goddamnit, Steve,” Tony growled in the quiet between them, and he bowed forward to press a grateful kiss to Steve’s temple. “Don’t scare me like that! You’re—you’re you, you don’t _faint._ ”

“He hasn’t eaten right, Mr. Stark,” Peter said before Steve could think of a lie, “or slept. For months.”

“Rat,” Steve grumbled in Peter’s direction, but it wasn’t enough to wipe the look of concern from Tony’s expression. 

“I’ll apologize later, for everything,” Tony promised, pressing one more kiss to Steve’s lips before trying to lean back and get his husband up on his feet again. “But we gotta go, Steve, right now, they’ll realize what’s going on any second.”

“They’re all looking at something on their phones right now,” Peter announced, having pulled up the security cameras directly, and he popped up in alarm and looked for Tony. “Is that bad, Mr. Stark? They— _oh,_ oh they’re—they’re coming, sir,” he suddenly added, “duck!”

The double doors of the director’s room blew open under the summative force of five Hydra soldiers. Steve dragged Tony down into his arms as all hell broke loose around them, and he rolled them on the floor so that he covered Tony’s body with his own, clinging to his husband desperately and bracing himself for the pain of gunfire. 

But with all the gunshots and physical destruction blasting through the room around them, the pain never came, and when the smoke cleared and silence fell, Steve glanced up and caught the glimmer of an old familiar icon. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re more trouble than you’re worth?” Bucky wondered, hefting the shield comfortably on his right arm. He strode over to them, and without any effort, pulled Steve up to his feet before holding his hand out to help Tony. “Detroit? Really?”

Clint hopped over the unconscious bodies littering the doorway of the director’s room, his bow retracted but in his hands, ready to be drawn. “Bank clear, we got two minutes before their reinforcements arrive. Let’s get the hell out of this shithole—no offense, Tony,” he added. 

“None taken,” Tony promised, and between him and Steve, they rounded Peter up and followed Bucky and Clint’s lead back through the teller’s floor and out the back stairwell where Tony’s car waited for them. 

“Our ride’s around the corner, kid,” Bucky told Peter, though Peter seemed reluctant to be separated from Tony so soon. “You know where you’re going?”

“We do,” Tony replied faster than Steve could process the question. “Peter: remember the password, it’s the master key.” 

Peter dutifully nodded and promised he remembered as Clint led him away. Bucky freed the shield from his arm and offered it up to Steve with a grin. 

“Keep it,” Steve said and gently pushed it back towards Bucky before his friend attempted some awkward goodbye. “It’s a good look on you.”

Bucky didn’t have time to wonder if Steve was serious, or if this was a temporary exchange. Their time was up. Instead, he nodded in understanding, told them to get in the car, and he stood on the curb long enough to watch Tony pull the car into traffic before he, too, disappeared. 

*** 

Two days later, Tony pulled the car up to a white house and parked. His back ached and his head was swimming, but somehow, everything felt better than ever. The news of his and Steve’s deaths were widespread, especially since it meant that SI’s ownership fell directly into Pepper’s competent hands. SHIELD was gone, and so was the company Tony had built to reinvent the world over the last two years, but none of it mattered now. 

Beside him, Steve slept in the passenger seat, as he had for the past ten hours after the all-you can eat buffet they had nearly put out of business in Denver. How many of those hours had Tony spent watching him, taking in details he had never seen before? It scared him to think of what that meant for them, but that fear was miniscule in the face of the hard-earned opportunity to face whatever it meant with Steve beside him. 

“Steve? Babe, wake up,” he urged gently, and Steve stirred reluctantly in his seat. Tony squeezed the hand that was resting in his lap, then brought it up to his lips for a soft kiss. “We’re home.”

“Home?” Steve mumbled drowsily, visibly casting around in his memory for what that might mean. The great white facade of the mansion they were parked outside of certainly didn’t help him find any answers, so he turned back to Tony again. “Where are we?”

“Malibu,” Tony answered. “Come on, let me show you.”

Steve obliged him and climbed out of the car with more grace than Tony had expected. “Show me what?”

Tony quickly came around the car and reached for Steve’s hand, and he pulled his husband along to the front door in poorly restrained excitement. “I had this made for us,” he told Steve as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Off the grid, secure; I made sure of it.”

Sleepy as he was, Steve’s expression still lit up with awe as realization sunk in. “How?”

Tony shrugged a little, but without shame he replied, “Hydra money re-invested. Not the only thing I did, but this… we can have this.”

“What all did you do, Tony?” Steve finally asked, after resisting for far too long. “Why didn’t you give me a sign that you were alive?”

“A lot happened, babe,” Tony said gently as he led Steve along through the house. “I will tell you everything, I promise, but first you need to rest. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Steve echoed dutifully, following Tony’s lead without question. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Tony promised, kissing the back of Steve’s hand again, because he could, and because he never wanted to stop. 

*** 

Fine lines were visible across his forehead, frown lines that were more discernible than the crows feet at his temples. Those, Tony had realized in short time, were mostly seen when Steve smiled. 

Asleep, the lines of his face painted a picture of anger and sadness. His golden blond hair, so youthful before their last mission together, had turned dull and snowy white at the temples. 

“It’s rude to stare.”

“Forgive me,” Tony said, struggling to sound sarcastic despite his guilt. “I thought marrying you meant I could stare as much as I wanted to, but if you want me staring at other people...”

The corner of Steve’s lips quirked upward into a half-smile. “Other, younger people?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Tony snapped immediately, wrapping his arms around Steve’s torso to pull himself even closer until he was lying more on his husband than on the bed, holding on so tight. He didn’t dare look away, from Steve’s face or from the changes that had happened to it. “You don’t age, you’re not— _I’m_ the one who’s supposed grow old, not you, I—”

“Shhh,” Steve soothed softly, shifting in bed to free his arms without pulling away from Tony’s grip, and he cupped Tony’s face gently in his hands. It wasn’t until Steve’s thumb swept across his face and came away wet that Tony realized he was crying. 

“I made my peace with growing old while you… you, you don’t,” Tony whispered, struggling to meet Steve’s eyes rather than staring at the faint blemishes over his cheeks. “The world needs you, it’s—it’s a safer place, it’s—it’s my fault, I didn’t think this was possible, you’re so, so...”

“Tony, sweet—it’s okay,” Steve said softly, gently, smoothing one hand down Tony’s naked back as he tried to help him calm down. “So what? I have wrinkles, sun spots. White hair. I’m aging. You don’t have to call the funeral home anytime soon, babe, this—I’m happy, Tony, this is okay. Aging is less frightening than not.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tony groused, but he bowed his head a little and nuzzled into the hand cupping his cheek. Steve smiled at him, and slowly, reverently, swept the pad of his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip. 

“I am,” Steve pointed out, and Tony could only roll his eyes. Silence stretched between them as they lay together in bed, grounded and comforted by the knowledge that nothing separated them anymore. 

“I love you, Tony,” Steve declared, “and I am not leaving you, not again. Whatever you did, I’m not leaving,” he added a little more carefully, brushing his fingers through Tony’s soft hair. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be ready to listen. Until then, you’ve made a home for us in paradise. Look around. This is stunning.”

It took a little more coaxing, and eventually Tony looked away from the faint crows feet at Steve’s temple and took in the views around them. The soft, gauzy canopy of their poolside bed swept lazily around them in the breeze, and the ocean stretched beyond the drop of their infinity pool as if they fit together. A modern marvel lapping into a natural constant as if they dared defy both time and space to belong together. 

“I only have one thing, uh,” Steve stumbled over his words, and his gentling tone felt more strained, more worried. “One thing I need to know, if you can tell me.”

Tony nodded slowly in understanding, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss into Steve’s palm before lifting his head to meet Steve’s worried eyes. “You want to know if I cheated?” he prompted, squeezing Steve’s hand for support. 

“If—no, you, what?” Steve frowned suddenly, so caught off guard that his discomfort turned into frustration. “Tony—no, this whole time have you thought— _no_ , Tony. Whatever you did, you did. You _survived_ ,” he stressed emphatically, “I just—all I need to know, is there anything that you need? Anything that’s changed, or, um, if, if I can do—or not do! That’s, that’s important, too. No explanation, I don’t need that, I just need to know if there’s anything I shouldn’t, um, do? To you. With you. Around you?”

“I’m done,” Tony heard himself reply before he decided to speak. “I, I want to retire, for good.”

“We,” Steve corrected gently, and he pressed his thumb gently against Tony’s lips when he started shaking his head. “We’re done. End of discussion. What else?”

“They will call you,” Tony still insisted. “They’ll need you.” 

“What do you mean?”

“The Ninth Circle protocol, it was a… a failsafe,” Tony tried to explain in simple terms. “While dormant, it recorded audio and visual on any device infected. When Peter activated it, the full cache of every device was sent to a recipient. I had some sent to Nat with the NSA, some to Sharon in the CIA. Some to Coulson and the DIA. It’s enough to bring down most of Hydra stateside,” he summarized half-heartedly, “but while I was in there… Steve, there's this guy I heard of, other Hydra cells did business with him. He calls himself Thor, like the Norse god. They won't know what to do with him. He orphans children and raises them, grooms them—a modern child militia, planted all around the world in plain sight, sleeper cells with technical skills and—business networks instead of rifles and grenades.”

“If they call, I'm not going anywhere,” Steve promised, “but you’re right. It does sound like a job for Captain America. Bucky will handle it.” 

Tony studied his face, and slowly, incredulously, shook his head. “You're serious?” 

“I've been a soldier most of my life, Tony,” Steve said with a soft smile. “I learned a long time ago, it’s worth nothing without love. These past few months alone? It was no life. You give my life meaning, and that's all I've ever wanted, Tony: a meaningful life. So, yes,” Steve added, in case Tony couldn't read between the lies. “Let them figure it out. My place is right here, retired with you, having countless naps every day—” 

“Naps?” Tony echoed in surprise even as Steve yawned. “Now? I thought—we were having a moment, Steve.” 

“‘nd I haven't slept in months, ‘m tired.” 

“Two minutes ago you were worried I’d developed new triggers from PTSD,” Tony drawled. “Now you’re satisfied enough to sleep? Need I remind you I’m _naked?_ ”

“Shhh, shh,” Steve mumbled, drawing Tony in close against his chest for comfort, not unlike a teddy bear. “You said retire, I agreed. Anything you need, I agree. If I’wrong, you say ‘cause I jus’ want you… you here, here, ‘n my life, longs you...”

Tony followed his pull easily, and smiled to himself as Steve pulled him in close and held him tight. He closed his eyes and breathed Steve’s scent in deeply, indulging in the sleepy affection of his words until they made less sense and trailed off into silence. 

He should have let it go. If what Peter had said was right and Steve hadn’t slept well for months, two measly nights of rest would only address the tip of the iceberg. He should be patient, he should let Steve sleep, now that he was finally content enough to rest again. 

“What was that?” Tony asked innocently enough. A little frown furrowed Steve’s brows, and Tony had to bite his lip to keep from grinning too obviously. It was all he could do to resist kissing Steve’s grouchy sleep-face, the way he pursed his lips when he struggled to recall the information Tony wanted to hear. He tried to reply, but it was a slurred mess of sounds Tony couldn’t distinguish between even if he had tried. “I didn’t catch that, babe. Tell you what: if you can spell it, you can have it.”

Steve hummed softly in acknowledgement, then quietly huffed out, “F.”

“F,” Tony parroted back attentively. 

“E.”

“Copy that.”

“L,” Steve managed around his drowsy tongue, “L.”

“I think I know where this is going,” Tony murmured against the warm skin of Steve’s chest, his eyes warm with mischievous affection. 

“A...”

Tony hummed deep in his throat, nuzzling at Steve’s nipple, letting his lips brush over his sensitive areola as he guessed, “T I O?”

“You give up?” Steve rumbled with a little laugh, blinking his eyes past the tempting siren call of sleep to drink in the sight of his playful husband. It took Tony a moment to catch up, but when he did he smacked his lips in distaste, which only made Steve laugh all the more, a deep, satisfied belly-laugh that disrupted Tony’s happy cuddle against his chest. Somehow, though, Tony knew he’d manage to forgive him for it. 

“F E L L A,” Steve repeated patiently, smoothing Tony’s hair away from his face. “I’m not my shield, Tony. I don’t need SHIELD, or a war, or—the American way, whatever that means. All I want is you, babe. My fella, right here, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Tony turned his face toward's Steve's hand, and pressed another kiss into his palm, until he turned to press his cheek into his hand so he could look his husband in the eyes. “Then right here is where we will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> My endless thanks to [ishipallthings](http://ishipallthings.tumblr.com/) for betaing <3 <3 If you ever feel like a Stony chat, [I'm on Tumblr (as shetlandowl)](shetlandowl.tumblr.com) more often than I should be.


End file.
